Some fowls there be that have so perfect sight Again the sun their eyes for to defend; And some because the light doth them offend Do never 'pear but in the dark or night. Other rejoice that see the fire bright And ween to play in it, as they do pretend, And find the contrary of it that they intend. Alas, of that sort I may be by right, For to withstand her look I am not able And yet can I not hide me in no dark place, Remembrance so followeth me of that face. So that with teary eyen, swollen and unstable, My destiny to behold her doth me lead, Yet do I know I run into the gleed.